


stay, i need you close

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Accidental Hair Pulling, Anal Sex, Explicit Consent, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Nightmares, Oral Sex, cuddling together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: you can go back when the sun rises againjust stay tonight, just stay-Cyril has a nightmare. Looks for Ashe, like he always does, if only to speak to him, hear the comfort of his voice.In Ashe's bedchambers, they quickly find another way to tend to each other.
Relationships: Cyril/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	stay, i need you close

**Author's Note:**

> i LOVE asheril SO MUCH and i think these archery boys should get to have tender tender sex with each other thank you for listening

On the fourteenth day of the Harpstring Moon, long after the conclusion of the war, Cyril dreamed. 

He dreamed often, of course. Not always, but sometimes. After a long day, he’d relish in the small victories of peaceful times, or of what laid ahead. Of how a delegation of Gaspard soldiers sent to meet a bandit threat nearby would fare over the next week; whether there was sufficient hare for tomorrow night’s banquet in celebration of the local full moon festival; if he were likely to receive a letter from Lysithea within the next moon. 

He took comfort in them. At Garreg Mach, Shamir had told him about dreams. That dreams were a projection, a preponderance of your inner mind. Running over each pressing matter like how a fruit might be squeezed for its juice, or how fibres could be pressed into fabric. According to her, the way he dreamt- of things to come, and of their potentials- was a reflection of him. How he dwelt, resolute, on the way the world could open itself up to him. He was strong, even within the deepest part of himself. For that virtue, he would go far. 

It was some old Dagdan way of thinking. And though Cyril had never publicly placed any stock in it, there was an invisible comfort in feeling that he was worthy. 

Sometimes, too, he had nightmares. 

Ones that made him feel small, ones which pressed him back into the dark corners he had spent years crawling out of. Kept him there, like a prisoner, heavy and aching with their weight. Made him feel the things he had long left behind; the aching of an empty stomach; the stench of blood, thick and overwhelming. Sometimes, they were abstract, an imprint of hastily summoned images blurring together into a vivid haze. Otherwise, they were specific. A face belonging to a corpse, with its jaw torn on each side.

An older boy, goading him into touching hot coals, insisting that they had cooled. 

The harrowing flames of Ailell, which rendered the ground barren and wretched.

Almyra; Garreg Mach; the Great War. None of them were the same; in regards to content or place. But Cyril could trace a line between them with spider’s silk, as thin and as strong as it was. For when they woke him, they woke him bathing in the same sweat, desperately gasping for air. Always so hot, even when he was bathed in fine sheets, a window opened to let the temperate airs of a southern Faerghus spring into his room. 

More than anything, they all made him look for Ashe. He would pace the hallways, sometimes walking in circles, trying to focus on something, anything, within the tranquil darkness. To try and remind himself that nothing he had seen, no matter how real it seemed, could come to hurt him again.

And without exception, he would fail. Instead, he would seek the room of the new Lord, following a path which he was almost certain that he could trace in his sleep. Knock, and wait for Ashe to be roused, all the while trying to think of some news he could present as urgent- as a justifiable reason for him to awake from his slumber. Of course, a pang of guilt would strike Cyril, especially when he saw the eyebags which drooped around Ashe’s eyes, or the way he yawned, sweet and sleep-drunk. He had always imagined Ashe to sleep so sweetly. Even still- it was like coffee with fine cake, or a day free of obligations. An indulgence which, once partaken in, was hard to leave alone. 

Cyril had chosen long ago: he had no vice other than Ashe. 

That night, he had dreamed of death. Of wounds, splayed and bleeding, and the strike which had once come ever so close to rendering his flesh from his skull. The way he bore its mark, forever and regardless. And so he waited, curled fist ghosting over the solid oak construction of the door, its iron joinery barring him from Ashe’s room. A boundary he had so rarely crossed, regardless of how close they were. He waited until the moment was right- in some imperceptible way, as time barely seemed to pass in the crawling darkness of the castle- to rap his knuckles against the door. To remember, involuntarily, all of the times that came before this. 

A sunken part of him, mired in the nightmare, told Cyril that he was unwelcome. That he should have learned to deal with these things, rather than surrendering to the emotions they stirred in him. Yet its whispers were silenced by the inwards pull of the door, and the way faint shards of moonlight illuminated an otherwise shadowed figure behind the portal. 

“Cyril?” Ashe spoke, gentle and heady with a suppressed yawn. Though Cyril had come to his room, with the express purpose of seeing him, it was suddenly a great task for him to take in Ashe’s presence, to recognize him as  _ here _ . As he blinked, trying his hardest to regain- or perhaps only gain- his composure, Ashe’s voice mingled with the chilled air once more. “Are you alright?”

Cyril wanted, as he often did, to say both  _ no _ and  _ yes _ . To plead for his face, but to be treated with great tenderness regardless. Instead, his voice rang with nothing but silence. 

“Did you come to see me, Cyril?” Ashe murmured, soft. The emptiness in Cyril’s throat began to ache, in tandem with the still-indescribable sensation of hearing Ashe speak his name so sweetly. He thought of it as having his own fingers pressed up to his jugular, a call to his life and his presence. 

  
“Y-yes.” Cyril muttered, then berated himself for giving in to a stutter. “Uh, my apologies for intruding on your sleep.”

Ashe shook his head, barely perceptible. “That’s alright. You’re welcome to-”

“No, no.” Cyril interjected. “I, ah, there’s some business I wanted to talk to you about.” Cyril’s mind flickered, as if it were being delivered a missive letter:  _ think of something, anything, that’s relevant. _

“Oh. Okay, then.” If there was a hint of disappointment in Ashe’s voice, Cyril didn’t dare dwell on it. 

“Tomorrow’s the Full Moon festival. You, uh, got everything prepared?” They’d talked about the subject earlier, but Cyril rationalized to himself that it would be, if nothing else, a good lead-in for anything which would justify his presence. 

“Mhm. I’m looking forward to it.” Another yawn left Ashe’s lips, and Cyril tried to push his gaze away from the moonlight illuminating the graceful shift of his neck as the air came soft and tender from his throat. “Big events can be a lot, but it’s nice to…”

_ Think. Think right now, of anything you can say. Just- something, so you don’t have to leave right now. _

“Cyril?”

_ Ah, fuck _ .

With a jolt, Cyril came back to attention, umber eyes resting on sweet green. 

“You seemed a little far away. That’s all.” 

“Yeah.” It occurred to Cyril that he probably shouldn’t have agreed, at least not outright, with that statement. Nevertheless, he persisted. “Just thinkin’.”

“Alright.” Now, Cyril did his best to ignore the quizzical tone his voice had adopted. Instead, he fiddled with the soft edge of his nightshirt, and tried his best to listen. “Well, everything is prepared. I’m kind of shocked that I actually got it done- but, you’ve been such a help for me. I keep meaning to say thank you!”

Cyril couldn’t count on every digit on his body how many times Ashe had thanked him in the past few weeks, often only for the smallest things. And though he’d always insisted that it was not necessary, Cyril suspected himself a liar, what with the way he had buried each of those little utterances deep in whatever there was of him that was anything akin to tender. 

“So. Thank you, Cyril.” Another. Cyril imagined himself plucking the words from the air, tucking them into his breast pocket, close to him. “But you’re going to be at the festival too.” Ashe twined his fingers gently through the droop of his hair. “I promise it’ll be better if you get some rest. No need to stay up and worry, okay?”

At that, Cyril could almost sigh. As inclined as he was to take Ashe’s good intentions to heart, it was hardly within his nature to surrender his worries. Not now- not with the sensation of trickling blood still filling him, making him twitch, sending him elsewhere-

“Cyril.”

There was not a question. Only a statement. Cyril’s head rose from where it had begun to peer at the ground, weighed heavy with thought and unidentifiable feeling, towards where Ashe’s eyes were now narrow with loving suspicion.

“Are you alright?”

An open question, a gaping canyon, and Cyril struggled to imagine how he’d fill the gap between its sides with anything but denial. The yawning, thorough depth of its darkness already induced something strange. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Ashe let out a contemplative sigh. “...I don’t want to sound like I don’t believe you. Because I do, and I can trust you. But, something’s up, isn’t it?” 

“...Kinda. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you...” 

To hear Ashe say that- it induced a sense of nostalgia, reminded Cyril of the days they’d spent at Garreg Mach. Of how Ashe would insist on providing his assistance, skillfully navigating past Cyril’s reservations, somehow and always. 

He’d always refused it, at first. The words _no, I’m good_ , bubbling on the edge of his lips, Cyril could almost laugh at the way his old self still clung on within him. 

How, sometimes, he failed to control him, couldn’t stop him from speaking something closer to the truth. 

“Stay with me.” Cyril whined, and the neediness of the sound almost made him ache, akin to some little sown thing with its seams being tenderly snipped, taken apart. 

“Okay.” And oh, how wonderful it was to have Ashe, who knew both when to protest and when to give in. His hand, scrubbed-smooth with floral soap and somehow softer than Cyril’s, came to rest on Cyril’s shoulder. Ashe looked briefly back at Cyril, who nodded affirmatively, affectionately, at the sudden physical contact. “Whatever it is, I understand. But… You probably shouldn’t just stand out in the hallway.”

“Oh.” Cyril sighed. “I get it. I’ll head back, I’ll be-”

“No! Um. What I mean to say, is- if it’s okay, you should come into my room.” 

Cyril blinked, as if trying to right himself after a jolting fall. The world almost spun around him, trapped a breath in his throat, commanded him to be still. Almost gawked at Ashe, as if he had suddenly begun speaking another language entirely. 

Becoming rapidly aware of Cyril’s apparent hesitance, Ashe flushed. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I can walk you back to your own room, if you’d prefer.”

“...No. It’s fine, it’ll be nice to be in your room.” 

Cyril supposed those words were an adequate substitute for  _ how is this happening, how are you saying these words to me, how am I hearing this? _ , and as Ashe unhesitatingly pulled the door back further, drawing his hand from its perch upon Cyril’s shoulder to beckon him into the warmth of the fire-lit room, he supposed too that they were sufficient enough in representing his willingness. 

Peering in, steeling himself for the unknown, Cyril took a precarious step in. Felt the heavy leather soles of his boots- how strange it was to wear boots into someone’s private room, he had to remind himself to remove them- press down onto the floorboards, creaking with his weight. Taking a precise examination of the layout presented before him, the whole affair felt rather familiar. Though Ashe had inherited the Lord’s master bedroom, and as such its greater capacity for various follies (or at least an unnecessary sense of grandeur), contained within was only decoration hovering somewhere just above ascetic. There was no reasonable doubt to be had that the inhabitant did not live comfortably; much of what did lay inside was refined in its construction and inarguably well-maintained. But it remained sparse, any sense of chaos lent to it exclusively by towering stacks of well-thumbed books. 

“I hope it’s comfortable.” Underneath those words was a hidden acknowledgement- that Cyril was to stay there, just for the moment- and with that, another chance to back out. Still, Cyril only proceeded to unfasten the ties on his daywear boots, shuffling them off to lead them by the doorstep, lined neatly next to Ashe’s everyday fare and his soft slippers. 

“Yeah. It’s nice.” Cyril couldn’t deny it was decorated to his taste- austere, but with regard to practical sensibilities. Lots of storage, some traditional items. What appeared to be an immensely comfortable bed, perhaps the keenest indulgence in the room. “You have a chair?”

“Uh.” From that, and from taking another glance around the room, Cyril could already tell the answer would be no. Ashe had instinctively taken his place on the side of the bed, still mussed from where he had been laying, either at rest or asleep. 

Briefly, Cyril wondered if the reason it felt so comfortable was that Ashe had been in it. That his presence was still visible- the shape he carved out in the sheets, the scent that the soap he used left, how the book Cyril knew Ashe was currently reading lay on the end-table, its dustless and jostled surface contrasted with the little flecks apparent in the firelight. 

“It’s alright.” It was hardly so, not with the only potential resting place being beside Ashe, and Ashe himself being certain to object at the idea of Cyril standing up or taking a space on the floor. Cyril stood, waited for instruction, evading Ashe’s gaze and the way his frame had pressed itself onto the right side of the bed. He almost considered taking the dresser, located as it was behind him, but knew too well that Ashe would insist against that as well. 

“You can come and sit next to me.” 

Ashe’s hand laid on the imprint left in the bed, smoothing out the creases of the off-white fabric ever so gently, ever so subtly. Still, Cyril’s eyes caught on his tender movements, fish following glittering light through the water. 

It seemed as if he should interject, respond with a refusal still kind through its bluntness, but as Cyril tried his damndest to summon up some worthwhile statement, Ashe lifted his hand from where it swept the covers, and tapped the plush flesh of the mattress with his palm outstretched, as if he were beckoning some frightened cat. The heat of it- this  _ invitation _ \- lanced through Cyril, made him weak at the knees. Quashed his hesitation, as if it were fingers on the flame of a stubborn candle, extinguished to let whatever was to happen in the darkness happen. 

Without saying a word, Cyril stretched his back, wrung his hands slightly, and let himself perch on the precipice of the bed. It was, true to his expectations, a rather remarkably crafted thing, no doubt some consequence of a noble inheritance. Placing his own hand where Ashe had previously left his own, it felt all of a sudden apparent why Ashe touched it so routinely; why it seemed to calm him so. It was soft, the same sort of soft he had envisioned as a child, dreaming of a wyvern capable of flying him to sleep on a cloud. 

“I hope it’s not too fancy.” Clearly, Ashe had noticed Cyril’s apparent pleasure at the sensory elements of the mattress, the way he imitated Ashe’s movements with his own palm. “But if you like it, you can have it.”

“Nah. It’s nice and all, but it’s yours. That, and you have a double bed. I just have a single.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Keep it. You’ve gotta be comfortable.” Though could not recount a time he’d spoken in an openly pleading tone, much less an impassioned one, Cyril enunciated his command with a tone of instruction, and Ashe dropped the subject with a silent kindness, a renunciation to Cyril’s long-lived stubborn habits. “But, why do you have a double bed?” 

Ashe’s face shifted into one of contemplation. “It’s the master bedroom. Lord Lonato would have had it. The bed, too. It’s mine, though when I think of it being passed down, it never quite feels that way.” 

“Was Lonato married?” 

“...Yeah. His wife passed before he adopted me, though. They had a son together.” 

Cyril knew that. Even if Ashe was reluctant to speak of Christophe, he knew, inasmuch from what he had been told by him, Catherine and the records he would thumb through when he could, trying to glean as much administrative history of the territory as possible. Still, he refused to speak his name out loud, in the fear that it would reverse any solace either of them were finding together. 

He thought, instead. Of how, even as clothed as they were, draped in Faerghian sleeping dress, it seemed that now, inside here, they were both naked, in much the same fashion that a newly-grown wyvern would moult after leaving the nest. Vulnerable, if only for the hours it took for newer, tougher scales to grow back, sometimes trailing their old skins around as they flew and dissipated into the evening skies. 

At the thought of the old Lord taking his place in the bed, beside his own lover, Cyril felt two compelling, opposing urges- one to run, and to not stop, the other to bury himself within the sheets like a stubborn splinter in the skin. 

“I guess that’s why he had a double bed, then.” 

_ For sex _ , Cyril murmured to himself silently.  _ He had a big bed so he could have sex with his wife in it _ . That’s why people had big beds, generally.  _ So they could- well, you know _ . 

“Mhm.”

Ashe’s body, warm and sweet-smelling, was close. Close enough that Cyril, if he tried hard enough, could count the freckles on his cheeks, or the eyelashes which hung underneath his tender, blinking gaze. Imagine kissing his lips, though undoubtedly aided by his previous experience in the matter. 

“Do you want to… talk about anything, Cyril?” 

The mention of his name broke Cyril out of his dreamlike state, grounded him once more in reality. How tangible everything was, how close. A flurry of thoughts tumbled over each other in his mind, an avalanche that came to settle immediately, becoming things that he could barely convey without an excavation, without hesitation. 

“It’s hard. I don’t know.” The gentle press of his hand on the mattress became a fist, a grip, tense and rigid. 

“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“Thanks, Ashe.” As much as Cyril enjoyed being given thanks, he enjoyed giving them; he had come to treasure those who had shown him kindness throughout his life, desired to show his appreciation. “...I just had trouble sleeping. That’s all.”

“Anything in particular?” 

“...Yeah. Had a nightmare. Know it probably makes me sound all soft, but-”

“Lots of people have nightmares, Cyril. It’s okay if you did.” Tenderly, without any trace of suddenness or surprise, Ashe began to lift his hand, bringing it slowly, drifting, towards Cyril’s scalp, his tresses of ash-black hair. When Cyril nodded, wordless and gentle, he moved his fingers, spindly and dexterous, to muss them tenderly, to rake through them as if he was creating patterns in charcoal. “I don’t know if I can make it better right now. But you’re safe here. We both are.” 

“Thank you.” At the physical sensation, the kind touch of his lover, Cyril ducked his head to where he could rest his forehead against Ashe’s, their faces inches apart. Enough to feel Ashe’s breath on his face, to catch its light fragrance- rich wine, almost certainly the little snifter it was customary to take after dinner in Gaspard. “Ashe.”

“Yeah?” 

“Do you have nightmares too?” 

“A lot.” 

From what Cyril knew of what Ashe had endured, and what he had guessed, he hardly faulted him for that. 

“...You’re in some weird place. And you’re all alone, except for something that keeps pushing you down, won’t stop, won’t look at you or tell you what it is.”

Ashe nodded, tender sorrow behind his eyes. 

“Nobody ever comes.” 

“It’s the same for me. Not- not entirely. Um, sometimes I’m running. I keep running, and I feel so empty, and I keep tripping. I’m holding something, and I don’t know what, but I have to protect it. But I drop it anyway.” 

Cyril, in turn, nodded, breaking away from where their skin touched together, but where they remained so intimately close nevertheless. 

“Sometimes, it’s just stuff I know I remember. Like Ailell, or Gronder.” 

“Lonato is in a lot of mine. Now I’m in a place that I can’t really feel like I belong. Where I haven’t left my mark.” A shudder worked its way up Ashe’s body, wrenched its way out from his lungs. “It’s all his. It still should be.” The breath teased Cyril’s lips, blew almost into his mouth, as if Ashe was trying to give him the breath he had lost in all of his lonely, nighttime grief. 

“I’m sorry.”

He could almost fall into Ashe, let his body be drawn forth into his arms. It seemed that every moment, every second of his waking existence, weathered his resistance, harsh winds exposing the bones of some ancient creature from unassuming stone. 

“I’m sorry too. Cyril. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Before Cyril could really rationalize it, before he could entirely process the potential, let alone the consequences, of the words he wished to speak, he blurted out a rushed huddle of words. 

“Ashe, I want you to kiss me. Just need it, right now.” 

“Yeah.” Though only an affirmative, Cyril hoped the rising breath in Ashe’s chest, beating so close to his, was indicative of his own passion. That there was peace, endlessly willing, to be found inside each other. “Yeah. I want to, Cyril.” 

From then, only a few seconds had to pass for Cyril to sink towards Ashe, meeting his lips with his own; still only breathing until Ashe moved in turn to part his lips, exposing hot breath and the soft insides of his mouth. Cyril opened his own mouth, refusing to hesitate past Ashe’s surrender of resistance, and for a sweet, brief moment, they exchanged breath, heartbeats rising in unity. But as soon as the moment began, it was to be over- Ashe, shifting his hands to support Cyril’s leaning, relying weight, allowed his tongue to slip out with a slick, demanding noise, meeting Cyril’s in the middle. Eyes suddenly wrenched shut in response, Cyril allowed him some exploration, replied to each inquisitive movement with a demanding, breathy noise, residual from his thoughts, entangled and subdued by the intimacy of Ashe’s presence. The seemingly impossible strength of his nimble hands on Cyril’s lower back, the attention he lavished on him without hesitation- it was  _ much _ , in a way that dreams were not, for it could be touched and felt touching. It smelled of clean sheets and night air, of bowstring and old leather and felt like home, somehow. 

Still, Cyril could not help the approach of another, distinct desire- that of returning the favour, or at least partaking more actively in what was being provided to him. Without warning, he began to move his own mouth against Ashe’s, trying his earnest best to avoid the bump of their noses against each other without the privilege of sight. To his comfort, Ashe was as endlessly cooperative as he always was, quickly picking up the need to make their hungry kisses mutual, their bodies move in time with each other. Intuiting how he should best balance his weight to allow Cyril the same access to his lower back, his gentle motions still unceasing- Cyril had been skeptical of any and all paradises, but if he could craft his own, he had no doubt that this would be a part of it. His motion unsubtle but deft, he slipped his hands from where they had rested gentle on his own side to cup the tender space beneath where Ashe took his seat, still acknowledging their motion against each other, their diligent attempts to please and be pleased in return. 

Still- it was hard, with Cyril’s hands where they were, to not think. Of how the thick layers of Ashe’s clothing concealed only partially the distinct planes of his frame. How round, enough for Cyril to press his fingers against and indulge, despite the hostility of the world pushing their bodies into rigid, battle-weary forms. It was harder to not touch, hungry, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh. So he touched, feverish, unsure if a more rational self would have stopped, not wanting to find out. As he pressed harder, Ashe let out a ragged gasp, and drew away from Cyril, who was beginning to feel the heat of the pleased little sound climb up him and diffuse into his body.

“Cyril- you- It feels nice.” Ashe panted, eyelids fluttering with the weight of keeping them open after having them closed for so long. “But, um. We haven’t really done anything like this before.” 

Cyril knew that, how deep of a truth it was. He had not been with anyone before, not even in the sense of chaste kisses and peaceful sensuality. A girl had offered him his first kiss, two years into his service with the Knights, and he had turned away. He had not thought of Ashe, not then. But Ashe was the one who made self-surrender worth it, who looked at him in a way that could make him earnestly desire giving into it. Perhaps because he had said much the same- that he wanted Cyril by his side. He was non-negotiable. Because he too had nursed these feelings, allowed them to wait and strengthen until the blood crept from his brain to his fingers and his mouth, all that was good for showing loving attention. 

A path was unfurling itself in front of Cyril, one he could walk with intent. As long as Ashe would stand by his side. 

Cyril sucked in a deep breath. “I know. It’s okay if ya don’t want to, Ashe.” 

“No! It’s just new.” They had not discussed this sort of thing- this desire, physical togetherness- in great detail. The time they had, both came to the conclusion that it would dawn upon them when they were ready, and at that point they would discuss it. Cyril had envisioned the sort of measured, even conversations they had on slow days, but concerning something much more carnal than trade routes and grain production. He’d even imagined it taking place in the cloisters, where conversation was tepid and betrayed no intimate connection, simply to laugh at the thought. But this- it was new, aching like a half-closed wound. 

“It’s not bad.” Ashe continued. “I might want it, actually.”

“Yeah?” Cyril did his best to sound confident, self-assured. At least it would be less embarrassing to wince in front of his lover than an audience of lords. 

“Uh-huh. It feels good.” Ashe’s voice dropped deeper, lower, breathier, and it sunk to the bottom of Cyril’s stomach, a red-hot stone plunging into the depths of a great and untouched lake. “Whatever feels good, Cyril.” 

It felt good to talk to Ashe, to have him like this- hovering, clutching, his pallor blooming with rosy heat and colour. But in a hazy, wanton part of himself, Cyril knew that there was much more which would feel good. That such things, if he wanted them, were treasured delicacies. 

And _ oh _ , how he wanted them. 

“F-fuck, Ashe.” Loosening the grip on his restraint, Cyril began to reach further up Ashe’s back, quickly reaching the place where his skin met the clothing that he donned in sleep. Fingers slipped underneath the waistband, adventuring no further, he returned to the kiss which he and Ashe had previously shared- a comfortable demand which Ashe met with great enthusiasm, moving from the intertwining of their tongues to a movement akin to repeated meetings of the mouth, spurts which matched the tempo of Ashe grinding forward against Cyril, a motion which Cyril was only too happy to return. Only after a succession of kisses did they break apart, bodies splitting from where they were pressed rigid so Ashe could open his eyes, though only into a half-lidded state, and give Cyril a questioning look. 

“Cyril… Are you, um, turned on?” Ashe’s voice was unsteady, the short and ragged breaths he had taken between hurried kisses hardly facilitating even speech. Still, Cyril heard him. And though it took a brief moment to process, his hand drifted almost immediately to the place most likely to betray him.

To where, through the washed and softened fabric, he was rigid. His thumb nearly brushed the wet trace at the tip further down, before he stopped himself and shut his eyes again. Tried to resist the urge to take care of it- this- in the way he would in private, with nothing but the solace of the stars. Certainly not with Ashe’s gaze on him, unhesitant and framed by the blooming redness of his cheeks. 

“Yeah. I am, Ashe. Fuck.” He was no stranger to the sensation, nor what it entailed. Though lacking in previous intimacy, Cyril had grown familiar with self-pleasures in the way most had, and over a rather heavy quantity of liquor Ashe had confessed to doing much the same (which Cyril had suspected, though his suspicions did nothing to lessen his need to relieve himself after they had retreated to their separate bedchambers). In the little gap between where Cyril’s eyelids met his eyes, he could see Ashe, the way his expression shifted into somewhere between giddiness and brimming nervousness. 

“Me too.” 

Cyril wrenched his eyelids a little further open, observing where Ashe’s own nightclothes had begun to strain against his evident arousal. Resisting the immediate urge to touch, he took a deep breath and ran his thumbs flat against Ashe’s soft skin, so tantalizingly close to the expanse of his thighs. 

“Mm. We can- you can- do what you want.” Cyril’s voice ached, shaking with the weight of acknowledgement. “I want to.” And though his body had certainly been traitorous to his emotions, it was almost revelatory to say it out loud- to put voice to his desires. 

“Let’s just-” Ashe muttered “-try it out. Um, we could reposition and just, rub. If that’d make you feel good.” 

Cyril hardly saw a reason to say no. What they did, how they did it- it was arbitrary, so long as Ashe was involved. His closeness felt necessary, a warming fire in a starving winter. So he nodded, decisive, when he was unable to throttle the words from his throat, and retreated from where he had been pressing himself close to Ashe’s body to the empty space beside him on the bed. Ashe followed his movement, slinking back to where he had once sat, hand hovering over his arousal until he was seated, then turned quick towards Cyril. Gazed towards him, waiting for a command, or at least a request. The whole situation made Cyril feel almost as excited as he was aroused. 

“Ashe. Let’s get real close, okay?” 

Ashe nodded in response, shaky yet still somehow composed. Decisively, he shifted from his sitting position to one where his legs were intertwined with Cyril’s, bringing their bodies once more into proximity. Leaning forward, but not to kiss, Cyril too brought his body close. Now, he was almost looking down at Ashe’s erection, rigid and apparent. Cyril’s own was pressed so close that it was hard to consider much else than indulging, generating some deliberate friction solely to gain release. 

“I wanna rub against you. If that’s okay.” 

Another nod from Ashe, and Cyril broke all of his remaining restraint in two. Coming even closer, his own pleasure nearly hovering over Ashe’s, he brought himself as close as he could, legs spread and propped up against Ashe’s thighs. Without removing the coverings that either of them donned, Cyril reached to touch them both as a pair, trying to bring them gently together, being rewarded with another gasp from Ashe’s mouth and a satisfying twitch thrumming underneath his palm. Gingerly, Ashe moved his hand to where Cyril’s waited for further instruction, or perhaps encouragement, to trace it gently with the rounded tips of his fingernails. 

“That’s good. Um, can I try something?”

“Yeah.” Cyril knew that he trusted Ashe. He had given few people such privilege over his emotions, but he gave what he gave wholeheartedly, and without reservation. Such a decision seemed wholeheartedly rewarded when Ashe drew even closer, and rubbed his pleasure against where Cyril was himself erect, sending a jolt through Cyril’s body that, even as restrained as it was, nearly sent him lurching backwards. Instead, with his hands bracing him from behind, Cyril moved to return the gesture, the quiet shift of fabric against fabric mingling with increasingly feverish panting in the air. 

One movement quickly blurred into the next, with both Cyril and Ashe becoming more insistent each time, more familiar with the yawning sensation of want and the friction which satisfied it. Between sweet mumblings of Ashe’s name and jolting bursts of pleasure interrupted solely to draw back, Cyril felt a familiar heat accumulate in his most tender parts, one which he knew would soon morph into an aching. Perhaps even release, if he was to chase it down the path which it wished to take him. But as he wrenched his body away from Ashe, preparing to duck back in, it came to him that it would be rather embarrassing to relocate back to his own room with a stain on the front of his nightclothes; and even if he was to be looked on by none other than buzzing insects then it would still intensify the chill of the night. 

If he kept moving- and he so wanted to, more than anything else- he would almost make that situation a reality, and such an imposing feeling bore down on him til he was unable to move forward again or frot against Ashe. Instead, he leant back on his hands, drew away from Ashe and inhaled, attempting to clear the heady presence in his mind briefly enough to speak something out loud. With his motion no longer returned in even tempo, Ashe paused almost in tandem, and lifted his own hands from where they had been propping him up onto Cyril’s thighs. 

“Do you need to stop?”

“Yeah.” Cyril affirmed. “But not ‘cause it’s bad or anything. I just- I don’t wanna make a mess of my clothes, and I feel like I might be gettin’ too close, you know?”

“That’s okay! I mean, I get it. But, um, I was kind of thinking of just stripping off and going to sleep after we’d finished.”

“Yeah, but I gotta go back to my room.” 

“Oh.” Ashe’s voice was heavier again, but without the tinge of lust which had once coloured it, influenced rather by a sense of confusion. “Do you want to?” 

“...I dunno. Guess I’d assumed I’d be goin’ back once we’d finished up.”

“Do you really think I’d make you go all the way back? Honestly, even if we never did any of this, I’d want to sleep by your side. I don’t want you to be alone, not tonight. Not unless you want to be.”

Feeling suddenly much smaller and much more hesitant than he had been in a while, Cyril whined out an answer. “I don’t want to.” A little breath parted his lips, ragged and still tinted by arousal. “Don’t leave me alone, Ashe.”

“I promise. I promise I’ll be here for you, Cyril. So it’s okay- whatever you want to do.”

How lucky he was to be loved like this, Cyril thought. How Ashe wanted him, but only in the gentlest of fashions, never pressuring, never hurting. Always holding out his hand, even if Cyril didn’t know how to hold it, was still learning what it meant to touch. Even if he hadn’t had the privilege of touching before himself. 

“Make me finish, Ashe.” With the practical implications of the world emerging in front of him mostly corralled, Cyril felt a new, fresh jolt of will run through his body. “Want you to finish, too.”

“Keep rubbing, then?” Ashe offered. He had almost finished leaning forward again before Cyril’s voice cut through the silence. 

“N-nah. Um, if it’s really not a problem, it’d be nice to have you… closer than that.” He couldn’t quite summon the correct term for it, certainly not out loud, but Cyril knew well how these things went between two men- delving into Ashe’s erotica, he had grown used to reconstructing the scenes in his mind, piecing the words together as practice. 

“Inside you?” 

Good goddess, he was going to have to  _ say it _ , wasn’t he? That he wanted it- that he wanted Ashe, and he wanted what Ashe wanted to do to him. 

“...Yeah. If you’re alright with it, Ashe.”

With that, Ashe’s expression melted into a smile, soft and welcoming on his face like a wick of butter on freshly baked bread. Rendered by Cyril’s withdrawal into a hovering position above him, it did not take him long to sit again with his back even, with Cyril still balancing on his palms in front of him, nor was it a great demand for him to rise back onto his feet and take tender steps across the floor and away from the bed- not until Cyril turned towards him, a flash of worry apparent in the plum-stone red of his eyes. 

“You gettin’ up, Ashe?” he asked, the trepidation even more apparent in his voice, strong enough to make Ashe’s heart ache. 

“Yeah. Is it a problem?” 

“Nah, I just.. Wanted to know where you’re goin’, I guess.” It was almost embarrassing to Cyril, how needy he sounded. It was not within his nature to plead, not for anyone or anything. Still- this was a place of love, and not dignity, one where the desperate need to prove himself formidable could be silenced, at least temporarily. 

“I-I’m gonna hurt you if I enter you dry, Cyril. We need stuff to make it easier.” Now, Cyril’s eyes were slightly quizzical, indicative of an unanswered, unprompted question. “I don’t want to leave your side either. But, you’ve got to do this. Otherwise it doesn’t feel good, not if it’s your first time.” 

The statement of it- that it was Cyril’s first time, the sort of event which had been mythologised in the little squadron of knights he’d been assigned to in the earlier days of the war, almost made him shake. Still, the weight of it prompted him to draw away from where he had moved to stop Ashe, back onto the bed. For as much as Cyril could not deny himself Ashe’s touch for long, not after everything, it would be best if he could be satisfied. Indeed, it was likely that these things had been used in the novels- Cyril never put the entire things together, only parsing what he could. 

“Alright, Ashe.” Cyril sighed. “But be quick, okay? Wanna touch you again.”

“Me too,” Ashe whined, footsteps picking up again. Scanning the room again, Cyril picked up on something which he had overlooked upon his first examination- another sturdy wooden door, one which was likely to lead to a facilities room akin to the one joined to his own room. With Ashe moving gently towards it, turning the knob as tenderly as he could (giving Cyril an excuse to gaze longingly at his hands, what with the way light freckling patterned their backs intricately, how they had healed from wartime calluses and gained their youthful softness back), it was hardly difficult for him to intuit that whatever Ashe wished to gather, it was contained in the small room. 

With Ashe entering into the darkness, with the door propped open to give Cyril a view of his presence, his suspicions were confirmed- he not only returned seconds later, but returned holding a glass vial. It was evidently weighty, even when examined solely by eye, and contained within it a clear substance which was only visible by virtue of its partial consumption. Cyril suspected it to be viscous, and perhaps fragranced, though he could hardly tell from the construction of the bottle. Ashe unscrewed the lid, pausing to place the two parts separately on the side table adjacent to the bed. 

“So that’s- the stuff for it?”

“Yeah.” Ashe mumbled. “I have it for… personal use. When I touch myself.” 

_ Ah _ , Cyril thought to himself. He had been correct- Ashe behaved much the same as he did in the privacy of his own room- and though nothing changed that Cyril could sense or put a name to, the whole room suddenly felt remarkably charged, as if redefined by Ashe’s personal habits. 

“Yeah. I do that too.” he blurted out, without much thought to anything except encouraging Ashe to know that they were together in that, so as he would not feel ashamed. Ashe blushed quite furiously at the proclamation, but said nothing, only fiddling with the waistband of his night-trousers. Still giddy from his previous proclamation, Cyril hurried a continuation from his mouth. “When you do that, do ya think of me?”

“Yeah. Nobody else. Nobody else but you, Cyril.” Cyril, with his eyes pinned on where Ashe’s body was tented, rising, swore that Ashe twitched, rose even more, upon saying his name. Saying such laviscious things about him, in his sex-tinted voice- 

“Come ‘n show me what you think about, then.” Another hurried statement, running high on the adrenaline of being  _ wanted _ so deeply. Nonetheless, Cyril became convinced of its effectiveness when Ashe swept the bottle, lidless, once more into his hand, and stepped to where the bed ended, the mattress sloping down from where it was pressed slightly by Cyril’s body weight. When he took his hands to where Cyril’s had been previously, teasing his waistline, pushing the fabric down in such a way that it would not get caught on him- in itself requiring the sort of concentration that gave Cyril time to admire. Admire Ashe’s thighs, now uncloaked by fabric, or the delicate trail of silverish hair which traced from the bottom of his chest to the nape of his pleasure. But there was a particular distinct enjoyment in watching Ashe disentangle his lower coverings from his erection- not only was his underwear a remarkably brief affair, its construction covering little, but the tender unveiling of his cock evoked something much more enjoyable than a sudden removal. Each second more enjoyable than the last, carving a path to the conclusion. 

Cyril noted to himself, in the brief gaps between his lustful thoughts, to have Ashe strip for him even more gradually some other time. 

Eventually, the rigid shape was exposed- long, reddened, with a droplet of come still clinging to the end. Cyril had made many estimations as to its dimensions beforehand, in absent curiousity and during his private relief, but to see it ache and twitch as Ashe ran his own hand gently over its length, experimental and teasing- well, it was rather remarkable. 

“It’s good, Ashe. You look good like that.” It was clear to Cyril, still, that if Ashe was to become insecure, this entire affair could end quicker than it began. But more than anything- he could not help the need to have Ashe know. To know how much he was wanted, now. 

“T-thank you, Cyril. I- um- can you do the same? Take your own clothes off?” Ashe’s shirt remained, covering his chest, but as he exposed himself from the waist-down, it was hard for Cyril to envision them going any further without him achieving the same state of undress. With deft movement, sliding down onto his back, he began to wrench away his own sleep trousers as rapidly as he could, bypassing the gentle revelation Ashe had offered him. Still no less exposed, the jolt of cold air against his cock made Cyril shiver, and realize just how sensitive he had become. Ashe took careful note of the little movements which Cyril made, letting out a rigid, hungry gasp. 

“I’ll make you feel warmer, Cyril. Promise.” Ashe muttered, drawing closer to where Cyril remained, haunches partially in the air. Almost forgetting the little bottle in his hand til it interrupted his attempt to place his palm on Cyril’s shoulder, to hover over him, at which point he emptied some small portion of its contents onto his other hand and moved it downwards, beginning to cup and stroke himself. Between emerging gasps, he ran his fingers between where Cyril’s shoulders met his neck, rubbing the skin, sensitive and soft-to-the-touch. Rejoicing in the affectionate ministrations, Cyril slid further down, legs positioned over the discarded clothing still laying limp on the bed. Bucked his hips up, raising his own cock into the air and positioning himself for- well,  _ access _ . 

A heady, exciting thought crossed Cyril’s mind. He was going to be entered, Ashe would enter him, with his cock- 

“Ah, Cyril.” Ashe moaned, jolting Cyril from his thoughts. “I don’t want to finish by touching myself. Want you, Cyril.” 

The last few syllables rewound a thousand times in a split second through Cyril’s mind, intercepting all else. Ashe wanted him, and he was in the position to give him everything he wanted. 

“Fuck me. C’mon, Ashe. You’re so- slick- I-It can’t be too difficult.” If he was frank with himself, Cyril doubted that- to be entered could not be a simple task, certainly not for the first time. Still, he wanted to encourage- to praise him, to make him display his love. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna.” Without much else in the way of announcement, Ashe lowered himself down slightly, to the point where he was poised over Cyril, who had continued to lower himself until saved only from being flat on his back by the slight upwards push of his hands propping him up. He took his cock in his hand, and shuddered at the touch, though resisted the urge to thrust into his own hand in favour of edging closer to where Cyril had jutted his hips forward, made himself available. Carefully, conscious of avoiding sudden movements, he swept a trail of lubricant away from his own cock and pressed it against Cyril’s entrance with one finger, circling several times before making a gentle, considered intrusion. A daring little movement, Ashe pressing the sole finger in deeper, crooked, freed a gasp from Cyril’s lungs, and Ashe began to repeat the motion, with patient interludes between each measured thrust. Cyril couldn’t help the need for it to be deeper, stronger, more potent, beginning to snap his hips forward at each sweet application of pressure. Beckoned forward, Ashe withdrew another digit from where he had curled it into his palm. 

“I’ll put another in, if you want that.” Cyril could hardly understand how Ashe was keeping his composure, even without anything on his own pleasure- even the brief, jolting fullness of Ashe inserting himself was almost too much to bear. 

“‘Course I do, Ashe. Please.” Cyril hardly intended for his words to come out so heated, so needy, yet at the same time he supposed that there was little to be done for it- to keep track of his faculties was becoming a tricky business, one which became only more labourious as Ashe slipped another of his fingers in effortlessly, no longer experimenting prior to the insertion, only approaching it with dogged confidence. Cyril’s thighs twitched, stammered in the air, and Ashe raised his other hand in response, placing it on the most tender patch of skin on his thigh. Caressing it, he began to coo sweet nothings. 

“I like it when you’re like this, Cyril- you’re doing so well for me, to take this. So good.” More words, none of which Cyril could divert from going straight to his cock. “I don’t even want to touch myself right now, and I’m really hard.” He curled his fingers in again, pressed the tender insides in his direction, goaded the spot with his touch. “I want you. I want you, do you know that? I love you, you’re the best-” 

Goddess, Cyril was going to lose his mind like this. 

“‘Nother finger, Ashe. Now.” It was a significant demand for Cyril to be authoritative, or even confident, with his legs spread, but his words came out alongside an emergent moan, shaking with volume and pressure. 

Another finger entered, gentle. Accustomed to the pressure of the other two, to feel even more opened was still quite remarkable for Cyril, and no previous acclimatisation could stop him snapping his hips forward once more, nor could it dissuade him from his loud, feverish moaning, particularly as Ashe drew the third finger as close as he could to where he had been moving the others into, inside of, his most tender parts. He could barely help the way he pressed himself down on them, trying to urge the pressure on, deeper and more satisfying. A single piercing tear pushed out of his eye, though hardly one of sadness- instead, of the all-consuming pressure inside himself, the movement which Ashe made unceasing. Pressing down and against Cyril’s inner walls as much as he pleased, full of gentle strength and archery-crafted precision, enough that it was at once too much and not enough. 

Ashe’s other hand was still on his thigh, making soothing motions. His lips still parted, though only to speak soft little words of encouragement and comfort, beckoning for him to move himself down on the fingers, to keep going. 

How much Ashe loved him. How much he was wanted, how safe he was in the moment- all of these things, soft trickles of warm water on his skin, a gently flowing hot spring vent. Making things better- if not forever, then just for now. 

Still, it was not long before Ashe withdrew his hand from Cyril’s thigh, and as Cyril looked up to where Ashe hovered over him, still half-dazed from the comfort felt from inside, his fingers soon followed. Though certainly more comfortable without being split open on Ashe’s digits, to have them removed beckoned a rather unwelcome emptiness, one absent of the physical pleasure provided by his- fingering, Cyril reckoned. It was all he could do to let out a loud whine with the last of the air in his lungs, and crash his head back onto the bed. His cock was still aching, with only a few trails of precum dripping from its tip. 

“You done, Ashe?” Cyril very deeply hoped he wasn’t. If he was tired, then there was nothing to be done- but he had not hit his release, not yet, and it felt hard to imagine that Ashe had achieved such himself without even being touched. “Cuz, I-”

  
“You haven’t finished.” It was a rather matter-of-fact statement on Ashe’s part, though his voice was still dripping with the exertion of sex, of joining himself so intimately with someone else. “Me neither.” 

For a moment, he stood still. “Just, needed some more slick.” Then, he stooped back down to where the bottle had been placed gingerly on the floor, lifting it up and holding it tight in his palm once more. Pouring it onto his hand, in a thick enough layer that the fluid dripped down itself in different patterns, almost reaching Ashe’s wrist. Cyril wasn’t sure if watching it was doing him any good. It was beautiful, and exposed the interplay of Ashe’s arm, the way its tenderness maintained despite the way that battle and war had shaped him. Still, he was perhaps too lustful to watch so passively- each twitch of Ashe’s fingers could be inside him, should be inside him. To watch him keep his arm still as he rubbed each part of his hand together drove him to an almost piteous whining pitch. 

“Mmh, please don’t take so long. Need you.” Despite how hard he was, despite how desperate he felt, Cyril resisted the urge to caress himself. After everything, he was assured that Ashe intended no unpleasantness, only required his patience. 

Patience that, though deserved, was becoming increasingly difficult to give.

“D-don’t make me wait too long. You’re good.” 

“Sorry!” Ashe sounded almost normal then, though he was still hard, at least from what Cyril could observe from his position. Indeed, he was almost apologetic in his tone. “I was just thinking. You- you wanted me inside you, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Truth be told, Cyril didn’t really have an entirely composed idea of how any of this should go- it was new terrain, and each thing they did was exploratory. Still, it was hard to say he did not desire to have Ashe inside him, in a fashion that did not solely pleasure him. 

“Alright. I’m gonna make it a bit easier, then I’m gonna try, okay? But if it feels bad at any point, please tell me, because I don’t want to hurt you.” Ashe’s other hand returned to the inside of Cyril’s thighs, continuing its caressing, balancing motions. “You should never have to be hurt. Not by anyone. Never again. So I’m going to take good care of you. My precious, beautiful Cyril.” 

That was him, Cyril thought. Precious, beautiful, deserving of all the love Ashe could give him. What a world, to be told that, and to know it was true. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I want that.” Affirmative, like he was committing to battle plans.

Gently, controlled and even, Ashe sunk down to where he was best able to access Cyril’s entrance once again, balancing himself so as to become more even, more stable. Even then, he ducked his head down once more, to where Cyril remained erect- took the head of his cock into his mouth, if only briefly, lavishing it with his tongue. Doing so, a loud gasp escaped from Cyril’s throat, sending reverberations through his body, and as the air was filled with the sweet sounds of Cyril’s pleasure, Ashe reinserted his fingers, deliberately spreading as much of the lubricant inside Cyril’s entrance as possible. Continuing to suck for a little while longer, but removing his fingers, Ashe drew away only when he was ready to change his position- a hand on his large, flushed cock to steady it, to provide some introductory movement in easing himself in. Leaning himself on the bed with his hands, hovering over Cyril. Taking in every part of him- the flush spread across his face, like a rose in full bloom, how his eyelids went half-lidded each time Ashe brushed gently up against his entrance.

The air was still, warmed by body heat, when Ashe slid himself in. Gently, without any more force than necessary, breaking Cyril’s entrance, already slick and open, with a slowness much closer to carefulness than hesitation. Cyril whined, hips jerking upwards at the sensation. Coming to rest back down on the bed as Ashe moved further in, establishing his presence. Took the opportunity to move his left hand, still dry, from where it had anchored him, to wind its way once more through Cyril’s downy curls. Not to tug, but to soothe, to ground him before he did his wholehearted best at moving, at thrusting inside. 

“Are you ready for this, Cyril? It’s okay if you’re not.” 

The instinct to mutter  _ be quiet, hurry up _ simmered in Cyril’s chest. Still, he’d always found it hard to be harsh on Ashe, who approached all things with the best of intentions, who truly wanted to do the best for people. Trying his damndest to make his muscles work according to his will, Cyril nodded stiffly. After a second, Ashe took it as it was intended- somewhere between an acceptance and a command- and drew his hips back, shaky, still unsure of how to utilize his body. Learning, as he and Cyril had always done together. Thrusted forward, reservedly, into the tight space of Cyril’s body, eliciting a trembling moan from the body which lay underneath him, looking with incalculable love into his eyes. 

“Ashe- yeah, feels good. Keep goin’.” Cyril spoke with remarkable coherency, considering the situation, and though he went back to fierce moaning only seconds later, Ashe took his input once again- faster, harder, if he could. Drawing his hips back again, only to shift them forward once more, Ashe dug his unoccupied hand deeper into the mattress for balance. Timed each thrust with the calm little circles he drew on Cyril’s forehead, akin to pouring coloured sand, slow and considered. 

But- still. Cyril was tight, yet accommodating, underneath him. Making contended noises, more beads of precum emerging from the tip of his erection, painting his chest. It was a breathtaking sight- if Ashe’s exhalations weren’t being drawn tight already by the pleasure building around him inside of Cyril, he was quite sure that he would not be able to restrain his arousal at the sight, nor his infatuation with his lover. 

He wanted to- intended to- please him, and judging from Cyril’s expression, he desired much the same. Without any further hesitation, Ashe sunk back into his rhythm, felt it pick up, timed his thrusts with the motion of Cyril’s body, which clenched and shuddered as he moved. Cyril, in-between the flicker of his eyelids, gazed up at him in pleased awe, still in tune with the motion that Ashe made. 

In, out, in, out. It was not quick, nor was it hesitant, but in its evenness it balanced them- left them both to think about a single thing, how it remained consistent regardless of what happened. It was nice- rough around the edges, shaped by inexperience- but it was nice, in a way that many things were not. Pleasurable. Lovely. Safe.

Like being held, deep inside the other. At the thought of it, Cyril twitched again, close in time to Ashe breaching him once more- knew he was close, or at least on the verge of being run ragged by the intertwinement of their bodies. Ashe, ruddy-faced and with his own eyes half-lidded, shaking harder each time he moved inwards, seemed to mimic his closeness, a fact which rather pleased Cyril, even in the numb fashion which defined most of his thoughts during- this. Love making, perhaps sex. 

He liked love-making more. Cyril wouldn’t do this with anyone else, not in a million years. He could trust Ashe to keep him safe, to make him feel loved. 

A sharp, upwards thrust jolted through his entire body, hammering some sensitive part of Cyril’s body- deep inside, strong and thorough. Gasping and whining, Cyril felt his body shift, rather akin to the tension that builds, then releases, during the release motion of a bow- and just as an arrow would fly forward with the friction, something more had to give within his body. Gripping the mattress tense, pulling it taut, a stream of come emerged from Cyril’s erection, still raised in the air. Came to rest on the fabric of his nightshirt, which had been pulled up only slightly, albeit almost invisible on the off-white of the fabric. His breath came ragged from his lungs, shallow and unsteady at first- but it relaxed, petered out, after its first few gasps. 

He looked down, knowing Ashe was still in him, unsure if he had noticed him come- only to be interrupted by Ashe pulling hard the soft hair he had been stroking, making Cyril wince once more, and the feeling of something warm spilling inside him. The same warmth he could feel through his shirt- 

Ashe had finished. Inside him. He was still shaking, still shuddering, from the weight of his orgasm, and it soothed Cyril to think that it had been good, though his scalp admittedly ached from where Ashe had tugged- albeit accidentally- and the pleasure of having Ashe inside of him, fucking him, dissipated into a numb ache after they had both released. Still, to his comfort, Ashe was beginning to withdraw, the last waves of his orgasm beginning to ebb. 

Still, it felt good. Even when it was somewhere between sharp and blunt, the blade of a poorly kept sword, it was a sweet, wanton feeling. Cyril hadn’t expected it to be unpleasant- if it was, then there would be no more humans, because nobody would want to make them. Still, it was hard to imagine it being this good. Not because of how gently Ashe had taken the head of his cock into his mouth, swept his tongue over it, patient and accommodating. Nor was it because of the precise bluntness of Ashe thrusting into him, even-paced and still muttering sweet nothings, as if he never got his fill of them. 

It was love. He felt love, warm in the pit of his stomach- well, that might have been Ashe’s come, pooling where he left it. Either was good. 

“C-Cyril…” Though Ashe’s breath had become less ragged, his voice was still stilted, fighting against the need to draw in air. “I’m sorry for pulling your hair.”

“‘S okay.” It hadn’t been unpleasant, honestly- Cyril noted that, too, down for another day, the possibility of having Ashe do it deliberately. 

“Alright. And I probably should have asked before I finished in you.”

“It’s fine.” Another thing which Cyril liked more than he had expected to, frankly. “Felt good. I like havin’ you inside me, Ashe.”

“Mm. I really enjoyed being inside you too, Cyril. And I’m really glad it was okay.”

Cyril rolled onto his side, facing left, smiling and yawning. “You’re a sap, Ashe. ‘Course it was okay.” He tapped the left side of the bed impatiently, beckoning for Ashe to lay beside him, to be with him for the rest of the night. As he’d hoped, initially, before  _ everything _ happened. Without needing any more instruction, Ashe flopped down onto the bed himself, with almost enough force to jolt Cyril from his position. 

“My hands are aching. I held myself up for a while there.” To emphasize his point, he dug his palms into the soft surface of the mattress, exaggerating a groan of pain. Cyril chuckled, and took Ashe’s hands into his own, kissing them tenderly.

“Hey, I’m the one who got f- uh, made love to. My shirt is ruined, and I’m not even gonna be walking properly tomorrow.” Though Cyril loathed to be inconvenienced, or to have the upkeep of his image interfered with, his tone was gentle, and Ashe knew that he welcomed these things- that he’d take being together over the inconveniences any day. Giggling, ticklish from the dainty little kisses placed on the sensitive skin of his wrist, Ashe pulled his hands away, tucking them inside his shirt sleeves. 

“I don’t think I can kiss that better, Cyril.” 

“Another day, then.”

Ashe giggled again, more flustered, and it made Cyril rather soft, the idea of another day. That he could experience this all again, as part of a future which continued to open itself up, soft and willing to be trodden. A lot still ached about the past; left its scars, made him feel unsure. 

But Ashe was still there, to hold him. To want him, and Cyril wanted him too- eagerly, with nothing but his typical stubbornness. As they came to rest that night, exhausted and fulfilled in each other’s arms, both dreamed; of separate things, but each equally pleasant, driven by a companion's heartbeat, sleep-slow and calm. 

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU for reading all this way!! i truly appreciate it. if you liked it, i really truly appreciate comments so much, so please leave any thoughts below! kudos are also hugely hugely appreciated.
> 
> you can find me on twitter @meowcosm where i emerge sometimes to share asheril content and yell


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